


council of fools

by eyemoji



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: M/M, unfortunately not a dating sim
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2020-01-13 16:05:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18472339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyemoji/pseuds/eyemoji
Summary: based off of a prompt given by @InhumanByte: "A committee of representatives from each Entity (e.g. Elias, Peter, Annabelle, etc.) arguing over, among various other issues, who gets Martin."





	council of fools

**Author's Note:**

> started & it kinda spiraled, ngl

Martin Blackwood has gotten so accustomed to the horrifying shenanigans of near-omnipotent eldritch fear entities that he’d practically forgotten about the more mundane things like petty theft and kidnapping until he was strapped into the backseat of a car, eyes firmly blindfolded, the all-enveloping shield of aloofness he’d recently acquired doing nothing to help him make out where or who he might be with.

 

“Um,” he says, voice muffled by his own hesitation as much as it is by the blindfold, “Hello?”

 

In all honesty, he’d been expecting no response, so the grunt he gets surprises him.

 

“Who are you?”

 

A heavy, exasperated breath.

 

“Where are we going?”

 

A snort.

 

Martin considers this, then considers his own reaction. He’s certainly not panicking-- he wonders if it’s the influence of the Lonely, quickly fading as it is (he groans, wishes that he could have argued with Peter the next day over, if only so he could have a grounding force to keep him calm through what is promising to be a very rough few hours) keeping him from losing his mind.

 

Of course, it could just be the several supernatural attacks and encounters he’s racked up over the last year or two. Go figure.

 

He’s not Jon; he won’t mutter _Right, right, right,_ under his breath as he slowly slides his fingers over the cool leather of the seat on either side, inching his way towards one door or the other, at which point he can begin to figure the lock mechanism. It’s a painstakingly slow process, and at every slight noise from who he assumes is the driver his hands freeze. His heart is warming up, slowly beginning to pound faster and with more intensity with every passing moment, and he worries that the sound of its beat will give him away before he’s able to get out of the car.

 

But the driver doesn’t make any sounds of protest, and Martin’s fingers keep inching, and inching, and inching.

 

And inching.

 

And inching?

 

He leans over, figuring the backseat is one of those that are wider than most, strains himself as much as he can without making more sound than typical of the average hostage being kept in the back of what is clearly not a car of any quality (not that he’s sure what that threshold is; really, Jon ought to be the one here, what with his worldwide experience in this particular area.)

 

Martin keeps reaching, and leaning, and reaching and leaning, and it’s only after he’s laying almost entirely on his side with still no hint of a door beneath his fingertips that he begins to consider that perhaps the timing of his and Peter’s argument might not be a coincidence after all.

 

He repeats the sequence on his other side. No dice.

 

That’s when Martin feels the first pang of fear.

 

He forces himself to speak up again:

 

“ _Where are we going?”_ but he’s not Jon, and his questions have no sway, and he swears he can hear a grin coming through the next grunt sent his way.

 

“Okay,” says Martin. “Okay, okay. This is fine. This is- fine.”

 

He’s not quite sure that he can feel the floor of the car below him any longer, and a queasy feeling rises up within him. His vision blurs and tints everything in shade of green-- then hot pink-- then bright blood red-- and then everything snaps to black. The last thing he hears before he fades out entirely is Peter’s voice saying to him,

 

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Martin.”

 

***

 

He wakes up halfway through being herded through a very cramped tunnel made of hard-packed dirt. Whatever trepidation had been coursing through him earlier intensifies; anything that involves both the Vast and the Buried can mean nothing good. There’s a hand at his back, urging him forward anytime he pauses too long, and it’s warm enough for him to know it’s not Peter.

 

The blazing heat that follows a few seconds later when he trips over his unlaced shoes and nearly plants himself face-first in the dirt tells him it’s a member of the Cult of the Lightless Flame.

 

The ensuing snicker as he picks himself up tells him it’s Jude Perry.

 

The walls scrape against his sides the farther in he goes. Eventually, he’s able to make out something glowing ahead-- it’s just a small pinprick, but it’s enough to give him some semblance of hope.

Then he thinks the phrase _the light at the end of the tunnel,_ and whatever optimism he found dies away.

 

He’s unprepared for the splendour of the chamber by the time they reach the light. The room is vast, yet underground, well-lit but shadowed, neither hot nor cold. _Balance,_ thinks Martin, and he actually takes a moment to search for Robert Smirke’s signature somewhere along the sweeping golden walls.

 

Behind him, someone laughs. He turns to find a young woman-- not more than college-age-- sitting in one of the fourteen high chairs that ring the room. She’s black, with golden hair that curls just above her shoulders, and Martin doesn’t need to see the lacy insignia carved into the back of the chair or the bundles of spiderweb crisscrossing her hair to know which entity she’s affiliated with. _Mother of Puppets, indeed._

 

“Enjoying the show, Annabelle?” comes a light, airy familiar voice, and Martin curls his hands into fists at his sides. _Peter_.

 

“Ah, hello, Martin!” he says, as if only just noticing him. Martin doesn’t say a word.

 

“What, no kind words for your favorite patron?”

 

“You’re not my patron,” Martin grits out, “and no, I don’t have anything _kind_ to say, thank you.”

 

Peter’s eyes twinkle.

 

“Sad. I really did expect better of you.”

 

“Yeah, well, so did I.”

 

Peter moves on, taking his place about halfway across the room from Annabelle. The rest of the occupants of the room follow suit, filling each of the chairs until only one is left empty. Martin looks, but isn’t surprised, to see that it’s the one with the carving of an eye. He squashes down anything he might feel about that. _Old habits,_ he’ll argue.

 

Over to his right, a small woman in a terrifyingly large shawl tsks, and it’s enough to bring the meeting-- or whatever this is-- to order. She turns her dark, piercing eyes on Martin, and as she does, Martin feels a primal fear, on top of the nerves he’s already got, begin to rise within him. She gives him one last even stare before turning and banging her hand against the arm of her chair like a judge calling order, which, as it turns out, isn’t that far off of a descriptor. The thirteen members of the delegation, each standing in for a different shade of entity, all snap to attention.

 

It’s spooky, plain and sound.

 

A few moments after the woman calls order, the room is entirely silent. The woman nods, then says, speech as slow as ever, just one word. _“Begin.”_

 

Martin will swear back and forth later that he hadn’t seen it coming. That, of the three entities that had tried to claim him so far, none had entirely succeeded; he’s not sure what any of the others would want him. The phrase “ _the higher the stakes the better”_ pops unbidden into his mind, and his stomach lurches as he stands in the center of the chamber, in perfect position for complete scrutiny, while the thirteen people dotting the room discuss who ought to get him next, whose “test-drive” he will be.

 

“I’m _right here,_ ” Martin tries to protest.

 

Of course, they all ignore him.

 

He decides to leave them to it-- what other option does he have, really-- lets his gaze wander around the room, take in his new surroundings, which are… surprisingly bright.

 

The chair with an eye carved into its back is notably empty, and Martin tries not to let the twinge of hurt that spikes in his chest when he glances at it show. He looks away.

 

The Avatars-- who Martin is beginning to think of as _councilmembers--_ continue to discuss, voices polite but tightly so, never allowing themselves to quite escalate into argument. Every now and then a phrase or two floats his way:

 

“--can visit at night; he might find it comforting--”

 

“--have already had your chance--”

 

“--can provide a lovely Home; he’ll never have to be Lonely again--”

 

Martin shudders. Not that. Anything but that. Not that any of the options are particularly ideal, but…

 

He thinks back to the worms, to their wriggling, their silvery sheen as they burrowed into skin, to that haunting, dreadful knocking against his door.

 

_No. Not them. Never them._

 

The councilmembers don’t seem to notice anything amiss; talking over each other in various flavors of harried from their high-backed chairs, and Martin wonders, briefly, what might happen if he just made a run for it. He doesn’t want to risk it-- doesn’t like the way Jude Perry eyes him in particular, each glance filled with a desire that brims with the frothy madness of the flame-- but he doesn’t particularly want to be beholden ( _ha!_ ) to any of the thirteen faces seated around him.

 

When the spider crawls onto his shoe, he almost doesn’t notice. It’s small, hardly threatening, legs slim and short, and to be honest, he thinks it’s kind of cute. Or-- he would, if it weren’t for the fact that as he coos and bends to let it crawl onto his finger, he feels the strange need to look up, and when he does, finds himself locked gaze-to-gaze with the disconcerting form of Annabelle Cane.

 

She’s staring straight right at him, chunks of her blonde hair still missing, the webs criss-crossing her skull glowing against her skin. Martin stares back, unsure of what to do-- should he _say_ something, or react, somehow, or--?

The spider crawls over his shoe. Annabelle smiles, just a quirk of the lips, but it’s enough. Martin jerks backwards, averts his eyes immediately.

 

He doesn’t see where the spider’s gone.

 

The others, however, seemed to have noticed the interaction, and they must know something that Martin doesn’t, because the hubbub of the room quiets so quickly goosebumps form along his arm.

 

For a long, heavy moment, the chamber is silent, with not even the gentle sound of breathing to cut through the tension.

 

And then the silence breaks.

 

“--not fair--”

 

“--taking advantage--”

 

“--the rest of us would love to try, too-- here, wouldn’t you like some _fire?_ ”

 

The spot on Martin’s shoe where the spider had been bursts into flame, and he yelps, jumps back, tries to stamp out the fire with his other foot and misses, sending himself tumbling to the floor.

 

He’s pretty sure at least one Avatar laughs. The thought makes him cross, and he considers, once again, making a run for it, disappearing and rematerializing elsewhere, leaving all thirteen as baffled as he’d first been when he’d staggered into the chamber, confused and scared and, if he’s being honest, feeling very, very lonely. _Peter would’ve been proud_ , he thinks, and then makes a face at the floor, scowling when he catches his own foggy image reflected in the smooth surface.

 

“Come now, Martin,” comes Peter’s voice, now, and Martin’s scowl deepens-- had he summoned him with his thoughts? He’s pretty sure that’s not how it works, but… he never can be quite sure. “Just come back-- you _did_ make a promise, after all.”

 

“And then you broke your end of the bargain,” Martin says, slowly but filled with enough fire to make Jude proud. “You _lied_ , and people got hurt, and then when I tried to leave, you brought me here. So, no: I don’t owe you _anything_.”

 

“Fair enough,” Peter says, in that same amused voice, and Martin very much wants to punch him. He hears a strange rustling sound, and a flurry of commotion somewhere off to the side, and Peter, too, seems to be struck silent before he continues. “I’ll be seeing you at the next budget meeting, then.”

 

_What?_

 

From off to his left, the old man Martin hadn’t recognized lets out a snort of glee, slamming his hands down on the arms of his chair in what is clearly utter delight.

 

“Mr Blackwood. It seems that your valet has arrived,” says the thing that calls herself Helen. There’s a tinge of humor in her voice, too, and Martin just _doesn’t understand--_

 

“Sorry I’m late,” says a familiar voice, and Martin’s heart jumps-- he knows that voice-- but-- it can’t be-- _what--_

 

The fist previously squeezing his heart tight in his chest loosens, and he finds himself able to once again breathe properly, shockingly sweet air flooding his lungs. His eyes flicker up from the floor, heart risen into his throat, not quite daring to believe his ears, and lock with those of--

 

“Martin,” says Jon, from the previously empty fourteenth chair, voice low and steady but thick with compulsion, “Are you ready to come home?”

 

Martin tips his head up, raises his chin with defiance for the first time since he’d stepped foot in this room, doesn’t bother sparing a glance for any of the other entity representatives clustered around the edges of the room. His voice doesn’t waver, held in tune with the liquid gold tugging on his tongue. He’s never been so sure of anything in his life.

 

“Yeah.”

**Author's Note:**

> @justasmalltownai


End file.
